Quality Not Strained
by Inspector Minkey
Summary: Why DID Cuddy risk her career to save House? Surely it was more than a pit stop on the road to plucking her beloved hospital from Vogler's very jaws. Turns out it was personal, too: she did it for the same reasons that she hired him.
1. The Final Problem

So many disclaimers out there to choose from. Pick the one you like the best.

**Part One—The Final Problem**

"This is Olive Kaplan's CT scan," House was saying. The familiar wry sarcasm was still present in his voice, but the usual forceful delivery was missing. Its absence hit Lisa Cuddy like a boot in the gut. "The Incredible Shrinking Baby," the diagnostician added for good measure.

Cuddy took the print, trying not to rationalize so much. The man had just lost a patient, for God's sake. His impending dismissal was probably the last thing on his mind. No reason that the defeat in his voice was her fault. She held the image up to the light.

The exclamation caught in her throat, coming out as a whisper. "Her thymus gland!" she gasped.

"DiGeorge Syndrome," House agreed. "It's genetic. Caused the gland to whither to nothing."

He was trying to be a doctor. She could try, too. "This is why she couldn't gain weight," she said, stating the obvious because in the long run that was safest. A vague nausea came over her. This was the child she had almost condemned to a lifetime of foster care, buffeted around the system with nothing to cling to—because of an inherited disorder.

The weariness in House's voice communicated enough to drag her back to the current dilemma, setting aside the awful might-have-beens. "Yeah," he grunted softly.

Cuddy willed her throat to loosen a little. A brush with injustice averted. Saved from disaster. Again. By this misanthropic, cynical cripple. The son of a bitch who _was_, no matter what Edward Vogler said, the best doctor she had. But administrative instinct took hold and rescued her from that train of thought.

"I'll call the police and Social Services," promised Cuddy; "and have all the charges withdrawn."

That was that, she told herself. Duty done. Now she had to get to that board meeting, to fire the man who had just worked another miracle for her. So be it. He had it coming, she thought callously, trying to work up a little of the frustration that she experienced on a daily basis. He had it coming…

And he wasn't finished talking.

"I've sent a test down to confirm," House told her quietly. "When it comes back you should start Olive on immunoglobulin replacement."

There it was! The spark of exasperation she needed in order to do what had to be done. He couldn't pawn this kid off on her just because the parents were idiots! "You're not going to do it?" she demanded in annoyance. Too good to follow through with his patients now, was he?

The unkind thought faded as his brilliant blue eyes fell to his sneakers. "Well…" he whispered. Then his voice gained a little volume, but it was still low, tainted with… something. Surely not shame or humility. Grief? Cuddy wondered. Was he mourning the woman he had just lost in the middle of a routine procedure?

"I assume I won't be here," he finished.

Then she saw it. It flitted through his eyes as he turned to go—ever so briefly through the crystalline orbs that he had never really learned to control. They betrayed him often, and now was no exception. And Cuddy knew him well enough to interpret their treason, too. One emotion shone through.

Despair.

Despair, she realized, and her blood ran cold. Despair and resignation and maybe—just maybe—a tiny hint of regret.

She watched him go, rocking against his cane with that unique rhythm that almost made you forget that such movement wasn't natural, and she sighed.

And before she could help herself, she remembered the day he had strode back into her life.


	2. Just Grievance

Thank you, **ang catalonan** for your kind review. I agree: it's all about the Huddy love!

**Part Two-Just Grievance **

It was a beautiful morning. Sunlight streamed through the enormous windows of the Dean of Medicine's office. It bathed the broad expanse of her authoritative desk in a rich golden glow. Beyond the anteroom, the double doors filtering out its dull roar, the clinic bustled with activity. It was manned today by a stellar cast: Doctor Edgar MacMaster, the Head of Orthopedics; Laura Beaumont from Cardio; and Zimmerman's prize rookie,, Doctor James Wilson, oncologist. The patients in that waiting room were getting the best free medical care in the state. That fact was a feather in the cape of Princeton Plainsborough Teaching Hospital, destined to become the most renowned hospital in the nation—at least if the woman at the helm had anything to say about it.

Doctor Lisa Cuddy smiled in satisfaction as she closed her appointment calendar and tucked it into her top drawer. The last month or so, everything had been running like clockwork, unless you counted Doctor Hargrieve's unexpected resignation three weeks ago. At least the aging diagnostician had had the decency to promise to hang on until a suitable replacement could be found—a process that was to progress to the interview stage today.

Cuddy had chosen the first applicant for a reason. When the _curriculum vitae_ had landed on her desk, she had been almost unable to believe it—even before looking at the chequered history of employment that charted the man's career over the long years since she had last seen him. She would take him on a good long ride through _that_ later! It was time to settle an old score.

Lisa didn't consider herself a vindictive person. She didn't hunt people down, seeking retribution for past slights with Norse determination. She reflected, though, that she wouldn't be human if she didn't take advantage of the chance for a little personal comeuppance when the opportunity presented itself. Giving an old nemesis a bad reference felt just as good as giving an old friend a glowing one. She would never go so far as to lie, of course. It wasn't slander if it was true, and that was the beauty of it. Karma was a wonderful thing.

It wasn't often that she got to mete out justice in person, and she was looking forward to doing so now. That was why she hadn't contented herself with a snippy rejection call, or the still more insulting silence, as if she had never received the application. It would be much better this way. She could enjoy the look on his face when he realized that she had his future in her hands. The expression in those heartless blue eyes when she told him that she would let him work in her hospital at about the same time they started serving scotch on the rocks in Hell.

He had it coming. He had been asking for it ever since the day he had banished an eager, ambitious undergrad from the Nephro ward at Michigan State, just because he could. Because he was a transfer student on an internship he didn't really deserve, and the only person lower in the pecking order was a spirited premed co-ed who had no real right to be watching the dialysis team at work. Cuddy remembered going back to her dorm that night and crying angry, insulted tears as she heard his sneering voice over and over again. "_What do you think you are? A doctor? You haven't even got what it takes to be a nurse! Cleaning woman, maybe, but you'd have to study up!_"

It had been more than a week before she had had the courage to go back to the hospital, where she did legitimately volunteer on the pediatrics floor. When she had next bumped into him, she had had sharp words to match his, and they had come out in a draw. After a few more encounters, she had first-hand confirmation of all the rumors about the cantankerous throwaway from Johns Hopkins. She had noticed something else, though. There was something about the wild-haired, sapphire-eyed intern that was ineffably alluring. Maybe it was the lanky sprinter physique that won him adulations on the lacrosse field. Maybe it was the keen diagnostic mind that could attack the knottiest of medical problems and come out victorious. Maybe it was just that he was the only person Lisa had ever met who was never, _ever_ afraid to speak his mind.

She looked at the CV and frowned. From the look of things, that hadn't changed. She hadn't even bothered to phone up his past employers. She knew what they'd say. Stubborn. Pig-headed. Abrasive. Narcissistic. Just like the twentysomething she had taken to her bed one October night. Exactly like the asshole who had belittled her the next morning, stripping away every layer of determination and self-esteem, until there was nothing of Cuddy the Scholar, destined for greatness and determined to succeed at all costs, left. All that had remained on that ugly dawn was Lisa, the little girl who was still too young to be away from home, with all her broken dreams and insecurities, laid bare in the unforgiving sunlight.

She had picked up the pieces, of course. The next day she was locking horns with him again, as sassy and charming as ever. He probably never knew how he had hurt her with his comments about what a great piece of ass she was, and how she compared to the other girls on campus. He probably had never seen through her armor as she met him blow for parry, sneered haughtily and mocked him right back, day after day and week after week until his internship ended and he walked out of her life at last. She hoped this was the case.

Or maybe, she hoped that he did know how he had wounded her heart. Then he would know why she wasn't going to hire him. Why she wouldn't give him a second chance the way Michigan had. Why she was going to take him on a long and hopefully painful ride before laughing in his arrogant face and tossing him out on his self-important behind.

Revenge wasn't Lisa's goal in life, but it sure was sweet. She sat back to wait for the applicant's arrival.


	3. Never, Never Change

Thank you, **prinnie** and **BlkDiamond**! I wasn't going to post again so soon, but such is the power of positive reviews! ;-)

**Part Three—Never, Never Change**

Lisa couldn't believe her eyes. He was early! She could see him out there, in the clinic waiting room just beyond her office doors, pacing boredly. He was wearing an ill-fitting black suit, but at this distance that was about all that she could ascertain. He looked in her direction, and Lisa caught a twinkle of ice blue as she moved her eyes back to her desk. She suppressed a grin. She was in complete control of the situation. Let him wait.

It was five minutes past the hour when her latest assistant—she was constantly losing them to Werbecki over at St. Sebastian's—called through to remind her that her ten o'clock was here. Lisa smoothed her blouse, did a quick scan of her desk, and told the girl to send him in.

She remained seated as he entered: a subtle insult was the best way to start. His eyes darted appraisingly around the office before settling on her.

"Well," he said wryly, something like a smile toying with the corner of his mouth. "Lisa Cuddy. You've changed."

"Gregory House." She hooded her eyes coolly. "You haven't."

This wasn't true. He _had_ changed, at least physically. Fifteen years was a long time, and some of it showed. He was just as tall as she remembered, and his eyes were just as blue, but other things were… different. He was thinner now, and the lines that had been mere shadows in his student days had hardened into crevices on either side of his nose. Age might have brought a little dignity to the visage of Greg House, but it hadn't brought any cheer. He was still carrying that Texas-sized chip on his rangy shoulder.

He spoke before Cuddy realized that she had allowed such a silence to elapse. As she had expected his words were mocking, melodramatic, and completely inappropriate.

"Not even a handshake for old times' sake?" he asked. "Or a peck on the cheek? Or maybe a passionate French kiss? You _know_," he added in a very loud stage whisper that was probably audible in the clinic, "I bet we could get away with a quickie if we did it behind your desk and you _promised _not to squeal!"

Lisa rapped her sleek Cross pen on her blotter and favored him with a look of dry amusement.

"Is this how you start all your interviews?" she asked. "No wonder you've been out of work for fifteen months."

Something arced like lightning through his eyes, but his face maintained its expression of half-sneering arrogance.

"I've been on a vision quest," he said. "Ritual fasting, burning of sweetgrass, sacred pilgrimages into the mountains, that sort of thing. Trying to get in touch with my spirit guide."

"What happened?" Cuddy asked. "You lose his phone number?"

She almost crowed with delight at the blank confusion her quip garnered. Score one point for Lisa.

"Your spirit guide," she clarified condescendingly.

"Ah." He nodded sagely. "Little black book went through the wash."

"Well, I hope you two found each other again," she said, consulting a list she had compiled three days ago. "Because according to my sources you cut your quest short. Interviews at Bridgeport, Greenwich, Lawrence & Memorial, Anne Jaques, Portsmouth, Saint Luke's, Fletcher Allen, NYU, Tisch… need I go on?"

He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. "Oh, right," he said sarcastically. "I forgot about that clandestine grapevine of oversexed bookworms."

Cuddy pressed her lips together, trying not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She forced a smirk.

"So many hospitals," she said sweetly; "only one unemployed diagnostician."

"Ooh, touché," House mocked. "The years might be padding your hips, but they aren't dulling your wits!"

Well aware that there was nothing wrong with her hips, Lisa was hard-pressed not to laugh aloud. Really turning on the charm, wasn't he? Obviously not quite as desperate for work as she had hoped.

Or else he was hiding it better than she had expected him too, she thought smugly.

"We could stand here until the rest of your hair falls out," she said, eyeing the subtle thinning at his temples, "or you could sit own and we could try to actually _start_ the interview. I have another one at eleven, so we're on a fixed schedule."

"Interviewing for more than one position in the same day?" House whistled in a parody of appreciation. "The capacity that the modern woman has for multitasking never ceases to amaze me!"

This time, Cuddy did laugh. "I'm only interviewing for the one position," she said. "You don't honestly think you're the only person up for it, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, yeah!" he boasted. "I figured once you saw _my_ résumé it'd be hands-down no contest!"

"I'm going to build the best diagnostics team on the east coast," Cuddy informed him gleefully, knowing how it would smart later when he realized he wasn't needed. "To do that," she explained with magnanimous superciliousness, "I need to talk to _all_ the qualified applicants."

House stiffened like a fox who has heard the hounds. "Diagnostics?" he barked. "You're looking for a Head of _Diagnostics_?"

"Ye-e-es," Cuddy said, watching him warily. What was he going to pull this time?"

He smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I thought you were hiring a _gigolo_!" he cried loudly. "I am _out_ of here!"

He turned and strode for the door. Cuddy felt a burst of righteous anger. He wasn't going to walk out now! He was going to sit and be put through the whole futile exercise! She was going to get her just revenge!

She shot to her feet.

"_Sit down!_" she ordered, pointing imperiously at the chair before her desk.

To her astonishment, House obeyed: instantly and, still more incredibly, _silently_.

As she settled herself back in her chair, somewhat discomfited by this sudden compliance, Lisa was struck by a troubling thought, completely at odds with her anticipation of the moment of revenge and her delight at the situation. House really _was_ thinner than she remembered.

She couldn't say why this bothered her.


	4. Curriculum Vitae

Thank you, **prinnie**, **BlkDiamond**, **ADASakura**,**addicted2coffee, ScarlettScribble**, and **Ibreak4CSI **for your enthusiastic and generous reviews. The feedback is much appreciated!

**Part Three—_Curriculum Vitae_**

There was a long, pregnant silence.

Lisa tried to refocus on the task at hand, but the sharp, steel-blue gaze of the man in front of her was absurdly distracting. Damn him, those eyes hadn't changed.

She picked up the copy of his CV that she had been reading earlier. As her eyes gradually locked upon the neat rows of typing, she began to regain her confidence and her sense of purpose. The document was a touchstone: a reminder of her purpose and a link to reality.

"You did your premed at Johns Hopkins," she said, following the format of a typical interview. "And three and a half years of medical school."

"Three years and seven months," House corrected dryly. "Do you have early-onset Alzheimers? Or have you been lying about your age all this time?"

She favored him with a taut smile. "Why didn't you finish your degree at Hopkins?"

He writhed in a parody of an errant schoolboy. "Aw, lady, do I hafta answer?" he whined. Then his expression hardened. "We both know what happened," he growled. "You win. You come from the most generous school in the country."

Cuddy smiled a little malevolently. "Humor me," she said. "Why didn't you finish your degree?"

He looked her straight in the eyes. "I cheated on a biostatistics final," he said. "I was expelled for academic dishonesty."

Interesting, Cuddy thought. He was telling the bald truth: no equivocation, no lies. She wondered if this was his policy—he had had interviews enough to have developed one by now—or if he was just being forthright because he knew that she knew the whole story. "So you were accepted as a transfer student at the University of Michigan, and completed your final semester and two-year residency there."

"And met you," House added. "So you see it wasn't all sunshine and roses." He paused. "Or maybe it was," he reflected. "The sun gives you cancer, and roses have those pokey things on them. Horns? Thrones?"

"Thorns," Lisa corrected automatically, glancing at the CV again. "What was your residency in?" she asked.

"Nephrology," he told her boredly. "Maybe your remember me? The intern with the _great _body—the one who _wouldn't _let you get away with murder?"

"I remember a self-important ass who loved to throw his weight around," she mused. "Not much of a people person."

He grinned toothily. "Aw, you remembered," he cooed.

"It says here that after that you had a two-year Nephrology fellowship at Columbia," Cuddy went on. "Under… Beymer and Giles."

"Amos and Andy," House muttered. "Giles was an idiot. Beymer was a blood-sucking, back-stabbing weasel, but at least he knew a nephron from a nipple." This comment was accompanied by a leering stare that landed on Lisa's breasts and made her wish that she wasn't too proud to cross her arms over them.

"That aside," she went on; "you finished that fellowship… and went on to a four-year in Infectious Diseases at M.I.T. Why not go straight into practice?"

He put on a melodramatic face. "Aw, Mommy, I wasn't ready to be a big-boy nephrologist yet!" he whined.

"And what makes you think you're ready to be a big-boy diagnostician?" Cuddy retorted. "Your first independent job was with Erstmeyer in Nephro at Coney Island Hospital. You lasted… ooh! Nine whole months!"

"I figure I did pretty good!" House told her blithely. "You know, at the end of nine months some people are fathers?"

Cuddy's eyes narrowed. "Tell me why Erstmeyer fired you," she said firmly.

A guarded look sifted into the startlingly blue eyes.

"He didn't," House growled. "It was Baxter."

"The head of the hospital." Cuddy knew Baxter: he was a capable, efficient and jolly man. She wasn't sure she could imagine him firing anyone.

"Bastard Baxter," muttered House, and suddenly the concept didn't seem quite so impossible. "Well, it happened like this…"


	5. Snow Storm

Ten thousand thank-yous to **Misspent Youth**, who rescued this chapter for me after I deleted my 'Net copy and somehow managed to corrupt my computer version!

**Chapter 5- Snow Storm**

The woman who had had the kidney transplant was doing well. The cyclophosphamide was doing its job, and her urine was already running orange instead of red. Soon, Mrs. Partridge would be out terrorizing the neighborhood and lecturing the mailman again as if the whole thing had never happened.

Gregory House, MD, stopped at the door of her semiprivate room on his way back to the nurses' station after checking on the renal Cushing's patient. The two sisters—donor and recipient—were slumbering peacefully in their parallel beds.

It was time for a meal break, he decided. He hadn't eaten a thing since leaving home at three that afternoon. Between that aminoglycoside patient whose nephrons had decided to shut down, and the man whose GP had overdone it with the ACE inhibitor, it had been a kind of insane evening already, if fairly straightforward. It was now just after two in the morning, and he had eight more hours of this fun. If he didn't eat something, he was never going to make it until morning, and he couldn't count on doing it later. Remembering to eat wasn't his strongest suit.

He stopped by the nurses' station to inform his partner in crime that he'd be down in the cafeteria if she needed anything, and to offer to bring her a coffee. She declined demurely, and turned back to her charting. House opted to let her alone. Personally, he hated charting, so if someone else was willing to do it, so much the better. He'd caught hell from Erstmeyer a few times over that...

To get to the cafeteria, where at least there would be a carafe of hot coffee and some dried-out pastries left over from breakfast, House had to pass through Emergency Admitting. It was a design flaw for which the architect deserved a very slow and painful death, probably involving hot pokers and iron maidens. The last thing House wanted to do was spend his fifteen minutes of precious down time explaining to some woman with a screaming two-year-old that the best way to treat an uncomplicated case of otitis media was to dope the kid up on Tylenol and wait it out, and then arguing with whatever doctor of indeterminate skill and no small prejudice the mother seized to refute his opinion, and then prescribing amoxicillin to shut them both up, and then having to deal with the father, who wanted to know why he hadn't given his kid "that new drug" that they'd talked about on Sixty Minutes last week!

To avoid any such incident, House hung back in the stairwell. He removed his white lab coat and rolled it into as small a bundle as he could. He tucked it under his arms, rumpled his hair so that it stood in every direction, and headed into the proverbial lion's den.

The place was insanely busy, even for two in the morning in the middle of a snowstorm. EMTs and ambulance attendants were running around with gurneys. A nurse was trying to pry a teenage kid away from his blood-soaked girlfriend. At least, House assumed that she was his girlfriend because they were each wearing one half of the same corny "Best Friends" necklace. Obviously there had been some kind of multivehicle accident. Fascinating to watch, maybe, but boring to treat. He spared a moment of pity for the ER docs who had to put up with this stuff every damned day, and then he remembered that _they_ hadn't busted their asses playing gofer to half-witted specialists so that they could get the necessary Board certification to practice in more interesting areas.

He was almost finished crossing the battlefield of banality when a hoarse shriek tore the air. It was followed by shallow panting. It didn't sound like your ordinary panicked motorist. House looked around in curiosity.

There was a girl huddled on a chair by the waiting room door. She had skinny legs wrapped in skin-tight leggings, and was either up the duff or in serious danger of central obesity complications. Her hands clutched her belly, which was rippling in the wake of a contraction. Judging from the splay of her legs, there was already some intense bearing-down on her pelvis.

Damn it to hell, House thought, as half a dozen subtle clues coalesced into a clear picture of the girl's lifestyle. She was going to have that kid right here in the middle of the damned waiting room. He looked around. "Hey!" he cried in his loudest, most abrasive voice. "Somebody get over here and admit this girl already!"

Dr. Thurston looked up from the clamp he was doing on some man's carotid. "Do it yourself, House!" he barked. "I'm too busy here to worry about a baby!"

"Too busy to call Obstetrics, too?" House muttered.

He looked around once more, in the hope of finding someone to deal with the problem that was definitely not his. No such luck. The teenager moaned and arched her back, then screamed again. Action was required, and House was beginning to realize that he was the only one who was going to take it.

There were no available gurneys, and the wheelchair bay was empty. He couldn't damned well carry the kid up to the fourth floor! House scanned the room for something—anything—he could use. An old woman was waiting patiently near the nurses' station, tapping softly on the handle of her walker. It was one of those deluxe models, with large, rubber-shod wheels and a plastic seat for the user's convenience.

"Medical emergency," he said brusquely, snatching it away from her and dragging it towards the girl.

"Hey!" the old bat cried. "Hey, that's mine—""

House ignored her. He was too busy trying to get the girl to come with him.

"Who the hell are you?" she panted, tossing her dirty hair in every direction as she tried to shake off the agony of the most recent contraction. "Get your hands off me!"

"I'm a doctor!" House snapped. "We need to get you up to maternity."

"Like hell you're a doctor! You're trying to—ooh!—Oh, God—" She broke off into another scream. House didn't wait to argue. He grabbed her bony shoulders and hauled her onto the seat of the walker.

"Lift your feet!" he ordered.

"No! Leave me alone!" She launched into a string of obscenities that had the benefit of making the old woman, who had been coming forward to reclaim her property, back off in no small horror. When the girl dug in her heels, however, House had had enough. He rounded the walker and slapped her sharply.

"Shut up!" he ordered. "I'm taking you to maternity, and I'm taking

you right now! Cooperate or I'll sedate you!"

A passing nurse paused in horror. "You can't sedate her, she's in labor—"

"So we'll do a C-section!" House bit back, smacking the elevator call button five times in rapid succession. "Mind your own business!"

The lift arrived, and he dragged the walker and the teen inside. She screamed again and tried to lunge through the rapidly closing doors. House nimbly transposed his body between the girl and freedom.

"No, you don't!" he barked. "You're having this baby, and you're going to have it upstairs!"

"I never wanted this fucking baby!" she wailed. "Let me go! Let me—"Jesus Christ!" she shouted. "I've sprung a leak!"

The distinctive smell of amniotic fluid filled the small space, and House leapt back instinctively—but not quickly enough to save his shoes. He rolled his eyes heavenwards and pushed the girl back against the net basket attached to the walker.

"You know what that means?" he demanded. "That means that you are _this close_—" He gestured with thumb and forefinger. "—to giving birth right here. Now _cooperate_ already!"

The door opened, and he shoved the makeshift wheelchair out into the corridor.

"Need a gurney, here!" he shouted. "Stat!"

The expectant mother shrieked again. Must be part banshee, House thought as he met the orderlies coming. He helped one of them hoist the girl onto the waiting bed, and started barking orders.

"Water just broke, contractions three and a half minutes apart. Get me the anaesthetist with epidurals; we're going to need a delivery room right away. Who's the Ob-Gyn on duty?"

"Forrester," one of the nurses replied, trying to settle the girl. "It's okay, honey. You're going to be fine—"

"Dandy. When we're done here, one of you can let him know he's got another patient. Get her damned clothes off, and someone might want to clean that elevator!"

They made a sharp turn to the left, and there was the delivery room. While the girl thrashed and fought the orderlies trying to get her into the stirrups, House dove for the sink and began to scrub with record efficiency.

"Gimme a gown and gloves!" he snapped. "This kid is coming right now!"

"It's a first baby, and her water just broke!" the nurse protested. "We might have hours yet."

The girl shoved herself up onto her elbows, momentarily halting in her flailing to stare at the nurse, wild-eyed with horror. "Hours?" she wailed.

House didn't have time for this. He pointed at the shoes that the orderlies had just finished stripping off.

"Four or five-year-old sneakers," he said, moving deftly into the gown that was being held out for him. His hand flicked towards her head. "Hasn't washed her hair in two weeks at least."

The girl screamed.

"Or brushed her teeth," House added. "Underweight, apart from Junior in there, agitated—"

"Of course she's agitated, she's in labor!" protested the nurse.

"Watch her eyes," House told her. "Very distinctive, paranoid motion. And she's got a bullet in her pocket; to judge from her behavior it's empty. Mommy likes a little snort now and then... she's detoxing from cocaine."

The nurse stared at the girl in horror, but House had what he wanted. He yanked the left glove over the cuff of the gown, and forced the girl's feet into the stirrups, not bothering with the nicety of a sheet.

"Now, you're going to do what I say," he told her firmly. "Ready, and _push_!"

The girl moaned, her hands clutching the sides of the table. House watched her carefully, all but unaware of the frantic activity around him.

"Good," he said. "Now relax. She's at least three inches dilated, here. Get the cord kit, and somebody keep her—_push_!—arms out of the way."

Two more contractions, and the head was crowning. Three more, and House had his hands around the child's skull.

"One more," he coached, focused intently on the task at hand. "Get me the clamps!"

With a shriek of anguish and probably panic, the girl bore down for the last time. House drew out the child, turning it skillfully. Like riding a bike, he thought ridiculously. Some things you never forgot.

"Syringe," he ordered, and began to suction the mucus from the child's mouth and nose. It was an undersized baby, wrinkled and hairless. A girl, he noted.

And something wasn't right.

"Muscular rigidity," he muttered as an agitated cry tore the air. The child began to wail. "Cut the damned cord already!" House shouted at the nurse.

"Let me get closer, and maybe I could!" she said.

House turned fractionally to his right, but he was too busy groping for the kid's brachial pulse to pay much attention to the nurse. "Hey, you!" he barked at the teenager, who was lying limp against the table. "Hey! How much do you do?"

"Uh?" she asked.

"How much do you snort? Get me some Phenobarbital, right now! How much cocaine?"

"Not much," she said vaguely. "I like crack. More fun."

The cord was severed, and House was able to move to the bassinette. "Phenobarb!" he repeated. The kid was addicted. Damn it to hell, a five-minute-old baby was going into crack withdrawal!

Behind him, the mother was fighting with the nurse, demanding to be left alone and fighting the attempts to clean her up. Someone arrived with a syringe of anticonvulsant. The baby was underweight, probably three weeks premature, and the iliac vein was easy to find. House spread his left hand to hold the child steady, swiped the area quickly with an alcohol swab, and injected two milliliters slowly into the vessel. The thin, wailing sobs died down, and the neonate's muscles relaxed. One hand monitoring the baby's pulse, House used the other to steer the bassinette towards the door.

"I want a heart monitor on her right away," he instructed as he walked, followed by the neonatal nurse, who looked like a flustered duckling. "Blood toxicity levels for coke. Half oxygen in case she sinks into respiratory depression. She'll need to be watched for signs of phenol overdose, and in about four hours for seizures. And for God's sake, get me something to bathe her with!"

Coney Island didn't have a NICU, but one corner of the nursery was equipped with the basics. House parked the kid and set about trying to make him more comfortable. The nurse brought a basin of warm water, a stack of wipes, and two towels.

House carefully cleaned the tiny body, and swathed her in a receiving blanket. Diapering could wait. The child was fretful despite the sedation, and her little fists twitched petulantly. The nurse turned up with a bottle of formula, which seemed to calm the kid. House attached the monitor and the canula, and bound the left arm to an IV splint, preparing venous access. A newborn drug addict. What the hell kind of world was this?

It occurred to him as he worked that he was going to catch hell over the whole thing, and that neither the obstetrician nor the anesthesiologist had made it in time for the birth.

Another nurse burst into the room. One of the other babies stirred at the sound.

"She's gone!" the woman cried.

House looked up. "Who?"

"The mother! She's gone! We left her alone for a minute, just a minute. She must've grabbed her clothes and run off!"

The neonatal nurse shook her head in horror. "Half an hour after delivery? Why would she do that?" she cried. "We've got to call security!"

"No," House said softly, running one gloved hand over the baby's distended abdomen, not because he had any diagnostic reason to, but because the tiny human cooed softly against the plastic nipple in response to the touch. "No, there's no point. She's looking for her next fix. She doesn't want her."

"But the baby—"

"Call Child Protective Services," House said cynically. "Plenty of nice young couples just aching to adopt a newborn crack addict."

Damn it to hell.


	6. Calling the Bluff

Thank you, **PaulaAbdulChica2007, BlkDiamond, MusicalMemory **and **Aqua Mage**. **BlkDiamond**, ask and ye shall receive… as long as "real life" cooperates!

Sincerest thanks to Gordon Korman, from whom I scabbed the "Sammy Horse" jingle.

**Part Six: Calling the Bluff**

"Bastard Baxter," House muttered. "It happened like this…" His voice dropped to a low and melodramatic timbre. "It was a dark and sto-o-o-ormy night…"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "And my heart was filled with fright," she mocked. "But everything turned out all right: I had my Mickey Mouse night light!"

House gasped. "You have one too?" he breathed rapturously. "I _knew_ we were soul mates!"

"Just tell me why Baxter fired you," she said. "Save the embellishments for your drinking buddies."

House gave her a strange, inscrutable look. "I left my floor for a fifteen minute break at two in the morning," he said. His tone was flat, factual and rehearsed, like that of a schoolboy reciting a hated lesson by rote. Cuddy had the feeling that he had been asked this question before. "I passed through the emergency department, where I stole a woman's walker and brought a girl to the maternity ward without admitting her. I didn't take her name or her insurance information, and I didn't obtain her consent for medical treatment. I delivered a female infant without obstetric supervision, and gave it a freeform barbiturate injection without consent from the mother. While I was busy with the kid, the girl took off. I told the nurses not to call security. I ignored pages back to Nephrology, and they had to get Wocharski from Gastroenterology to cover for me. Then I refused to surrender the position of the neonate's primary to the pediatrician. When Baxter found out, we argued and he fired me."

Lisa laughed aloud. "And you're _surprised_?" she asked. "That's a legal nightmare!"

"I'm not surprised," House said, "but Baxter is still a bastard."

"No," Cuddy said. "Baxter is just sane. You, apparently, aren't. Why the hell would you do something like that?"

House shrugged. "Babies don't wait for paperwork. When they're coming, they're _coming_—got time for a sex joke here?"

She was determined not to be so easily sidetracked. This was one of the most irresponsible, at-fault firings she had ever heard of. "You stole someone's walker? _Why_?"

He made a noncommittal noise and gestured vaguely. "Couldn't find a wheelchair," he said with just a hint of sarcasm. "It had tires and a seat. It was sent by God in my hour of need."

She stared at him. "Do I even want to know why you would inject a newborn with a barbiturate?" she asked.

"Would you believe 'clinical trial'?" House asked saucily.

There was another uncomfortable silence. Cuddy tried very hard not to let his steady gaze fluster her. It was not an easy task, but fortunately he spoke again before she could lose the battle.

"I was a repeat offender," he said conversationally.

Lisa gawked. "You make a habit of shooting babies up with sedatives?"

"Anticonvulsants," House snapped impatiently. "And obviously I had a valid medical reason for that! I mean I'd been warned before about going AWOL from my department and treating random patients—and about ignoring my pages while on call."

"Why on earth would you have wanted to treat the woman in the first place?" Cuddy asked. "Any doctor can perform a delivery."

"Any reasonably intelligent adult—of which there are very few specimens in today's world—can perform a delivery," House countered. "You just catch and snip. Obviously, I had reasons to find the case interesting, or at least urgent."

"What reasons?" Cuddy demanded.

He grinned smugly. "Ah-ah!" he said, wagging a finger. "Doctor-patient confidentiality!"

"You haven't given any names—" Cuddy began in protest.

"Kid didn't have a name. Her foster parents probably picked one. They didn't catch the mother," House said flippantly. "One more reason that Baxter was pissed."

"I'm not going to hire you unless you tell me the truth," Cuddy warned.

House sat back, a look of grim vindication playing on his lips. "Then let's be honest," he sneered. "You're not going to hire me whatever I do. You had no intention of hiring me in the first place."

Lisa's heart rate doubled. "Don't be ridiculous!" she blustered, too quickly. "If you think I have time to waste interviewing people I have no intention of hiring—"

"Not 'people'," House said. "Just me."

"Oh, so this is some private little vendetta? I don't really need a head of Diagnostics at all. I'm just trying to play games with your mind!"

"Two out of three," House said. "I'm sure you _do_ need a head of Diagnostics. I'm equally certain that you called me in for an interview with no intention of considering me for the position."

"Why am I doing it, then?" she demanded, still trying to get over her shock that he had seen through her so easily.

He shrugged his slender shoulders, causing a wholesale shift in the creases that his badly-fitted suit jacket made over them. "Curiosity?" he mused. "Revenge for some imagined injury I did you when we were at Michigan together? Kicks?"

Cuddy tried to laugh scornfully, but it came out much more desperate than she had intended. "If you're going to act like a paranoid recluse—"

"You know," House said; "my high school guidance counselor told me that _that_ would be my ideal occupation…"

"Then why didn't you pay attention? You could be living in the Himalayas with your goats right now, instead of questioning my motives for interviewing you!"

" 'Paranoid recluse', not 'Buddhist hermit'," House said. "I couldn't stand to shave my head!" He ran a finger through his hair.

"A few more years, and you won't have to," Lisa said pleasantly. "Now, are we going to get on with this interview, or would you like to go back home?"

House shrugged indolently. "Who am I to ruin your nice little psych experiment?" he asked. "Back to Baxter and his arbitrary firings?"

"Hardly arbitrary, if that's the whole story," Cuddy said.

"Do you think it is?" House asked, staring keenly at her.

Suddenly, she wasn't sure what to think. Silently, she stared back. God, his eyes were so _blue_! Impossibly blue.

"Given the circumstances—which I'm not sharing, so don't ask," House warned. "—I might have gotten away with it, if I hadn't stolen the walker. Doesn't look good for a hospital, having a doctor who steals patients' mobility aids, does it?"

Suddenly, the image of Greg House swiping an old woman's walker crystallized into a reality in Lisa's mind. She raised a hand to her mouth, trying to disguise an involuntary laugh. "No," she said, as soon as she could keep a straight face. "No, it certainly doesn't."

She picked up the CV again. "After that, you got a job in Infectious Diseases at RIH. Ooh, and you kept it for twenty-six whole months! Impressive!"

House smirked. "Thanks."

Cuddy tilted her head to one side. "You want to tell me about that one?"

His blue eyes glittered inscrutably. "My pleasure."


End file.
